I Will Come For You
by Amorai
Summary: Married to Raoul, Christine wakes up one morning to find him viciously murdered in the foyer of their manor, with a note from the killer promising to return for her. Desperate, she flees, swept up in a race that could end in either life...or death.
1. Hell

**CHAPTER ONE**

(Hell)

_Christine looked back for one last glance as Raoul steered the gondola away from the invading mob. She almost wished she didn't. Erik's eyes, originally such a piercing green, had turned dark as he gazed after them. Heartbreaking sadness, longing, love resounded in his eyes as they connected to Christine's. A shard of truth lodged in her heart. She wanted to stay. She wanted to go back there, back across the growing distance between them, put her hand in Erik's and tell him she was his. Anything, anything to relieve that awful suffering in his eyes as he stared after them. _

_Raoul—yes, Raoul. She still loved him, but he was gentle and understanding and she was quite sure he would, in time, forgive her. Raoul had always said that he valued her happiness above everything else…_

"_Raoul—I changed my mind…I'm sorry," Christine whispered in his ear._

"_Are you sure?" Raoul said after a short pause._

"_Yes. I'm so sorry… please forgive me…" _

"_Don't worry about me. If you're happy, I'll be all right. You belong with the one you love," Raoul replied as he started turning the boat around. _

_A soft rushing sound met their ears and grew in volume alarmingly fast, but before they could turn around and identify the source, it was already upon them. A wave towered impossibly high over their heads, a freak of nature appearing from the direction they were going. Christine screamed in terror and instinctively grabbed for Raoul's hand. But as the cresting wave smashed down upon them, his hand was wrenched from hers. The last thing she remembered before the malevolent water swallowed her was a fleeting glance of Erik. Shock and grief radiated from him as he splashed into the water to help them, but he was much too far away…Alone in the horrible dark water, Christine thrust an arm in Erik's direction, hoping against hope his hand could save her from the water that threatened to drown her. A hand seized hers, but as it dragged her deeper into the swirling black water she realized it wasn't Raoul's, or Erik, but the hand of Death itself, cold and unforgiving, and she distinctly heard a cruel laugh as her vision faded completely and the icy water seeped into her caving lungs…_

She gasped and opened her eyes. She had somehow awoken sitting up. She collapsed back into the soft feather bed and started sobbing hysterically. This nightmare had plagued her for months and months after the events of that fatal night in the darkest caverns of the Opera Populaire. Always the same—the change of heart, the wave that came out of nowhere, Erik's vain attempt to rescue her, the unmerciful laugh of Death taking her deeper…Would the horror never end? Was she doomed to live this nightmare over and over until she died?

Now married to Raoul, she was terrified of nighttime, knowing that night meant sleep and sleep meant nightmares. Every single time, she fought the heaviness of her eyelids for hours, only to finally give in and relive the night of choices, of evil and love, of pain beyond imagining. She would never be able to control or escape the terror, the trauma…the shame, night after night after night. She loved Raoul with all her heart, and yet…she almost wished she had chosen to stay with Erik forever. He had not just wanted someone to love him, he needed it, so much more than Raoul did. Erik had been so deprived, had never, until her, known a single loving heart or an act of kindness; Christine knew she would have gladly supplied it for him if she had chosen him for good. For Raoul, love was something extra, something he and people like him searched for and celebrated lavishly when they won. Romantic love and companionship in marriage wasn't something they necessarily needed, when they had been sheltered their whole lives in homes of comfort, happiness, and security. Christine ran over what Raoul had reluctantly told her of Erik's terrible childhood and the abuse he had endured as a circus freak, and shuddered. Erik had needed her more than Raoul ever did, and to respond to his plea onstage to love him by abandoning him instead…

"Beyond forgivable," a voice said sternly in her head.

Her breathing calmer now, Christine stared at the ceiling above her. Did she love Raoul? Yes, she did. And it hurt her that every time she awoke screaming or crying from that same nightmare, he had comforted her with a growing shadow of pain in his eyes. She knew he wondered constantly now if she had made the right choice after all being with him. He suggested cautiously several times that perhaps he could find Erik and let Christine go off with him instead. She had always said it wasn't needed, and that she was just going through a phase. Each time she said it, it sounded more like a lie. Finally, he had stopped asking. She knew he still worried about her, pondering if she was happy at all being with him.

Christine drew a hand across her face roughly and got out of bed. She glanced at the clock ticking calmly on the wall. It was seven-thirty. Raoul had mentioned the night before that he had to see to some affairs outside of Paris, and not to see him off as he had to leave very early. He had promised to be back that night.

She slipped on a soft dressing gown, but just as she tied a knot in the belt, a shrill scream of horror rent the air.

Christine stood frozen, both hands clutching the ends of the belt. Confusion and a terrifying fear battled for dominance in her heart. Her feet moved rapidly of their own accord to the bedroom door. She wrenched it open and stepped into the spacious hallway as the screams escalated in number and volume. A crazed howling of grief shot through the air, and she shivered.

"Someone tell Madame!" someone shrieked, then the sound of sprinting footsteps met her ears.

Sylvie, one of the servants, her hair loose and hectic and her skirts in disarray, climbed up the steps, her breath coming fast and ragged. She flew up to Christine, who stood there staring at her like a statue waiting to be brought to life.

"Fear nothing, Madame," Sylvie said in a shaky voice, grasping Christine's limp hands, "except the worst. Master de Chagny—your husband—has been killed."

* * *

In a trance, Christine was pulled down the stairs by Sylvie, who tried to console her. Her words meant little to Christine as the stairs and walls blurred into a dreamlike state. All became clear to her as she spotted the huddle of crying servants around a mass of fabric on the ground. They parted as Christine drew near to lay eyes upon her dead husband.

A large, shockingly scarlet pool of blood, half-dried, surrounded his upper body. A silver dagger, stained red, was embedded in Raoul's chest and a necklace of deep stab wounds surrounded his neck and shoulders. A note addressed to the Vicomtess de Chagny lay folded in half, sticking out of Raoul's hand, soft and limp in sudden death. Christine kneeled down next to her husband's body, picked it up with shaking fingers and unfolded it.

_I'm hardly far from done,_

_and I will come back for you._

_~His murderer_

Amélie, another servant, shrieked in fear as she read over Christine's shoulder, and Christine lowered the note in numb hands, to have it taken from her by the other servants and read aloud. The cacophony grew as the small group approached hysteria.

"This is terrible! Everyone is in danger! What do we do?" Amélie cried.

"Do we leave the Master's body? What if the killer comes back tonight?" another servant screeched in fear. The knot of servants started a fresh round of sobbing and terrified screams.

Christine had stayed small and silent the entire time. Like a sedative, her mind had become calm and detached, the unspeakable truth denied entrance to her heart. Somehow, in the midst of so much panicking, she was able to think clearly.

"Pack your belongings," she said in a quiet voice. Everyone fell silent and looked at her. "Gather your things together. Disguise yourselves. You have fifteen minutes."

"What if the murderer comes back sooner than that?" Anna asked, clutching her skirts in fear.

"Let's hope he doesn't. Meet me at the back entrance. Fifteen minutes. Go!"

She gave the last word as an order and the five maids scattered to their quarters. Christine headed back up the steps, gripping the rail tightly and shoving down the horror that threatened to engulf her at any moment.


	2. The Coming of Lucifer

**CHAPTER TWO: The Coming of Lucifer**

She was glad that she had found the veil in the corner of her wardrobe. It obscured her face to the outside world, and she thanked God that Raoul had passed it down to her from his mother.

They had walked quickly to the first main road, and Christine had succeeded in hailing two carriages for the group of six. The ride took two hours, going to the most distant inn Christine knew of—the farther, the better. Asking quietly for three rooms, one for herself, she had breathed a sigh of relief when the owner took her money without question, despite the fact that groups of females never travelled without a male in their presence and that their leader was keen to hide her appearance.

Now holed up in her room while the servant girls next door kept up a moderate hum of slowly calming remarks, she finally felt the frightening ordeal sinking in. Her dear Raoul was dead, murdered by an assassin that could come back for her any moment. She was able to grab only the money set aside by Raoul for emergencies, and for supporting a young woman and five servant girls, it wouldn't last long. At twenty-two, she was already a widow. Christine shook her head in dismay and ran a hand through her hair, trying to calm herself.

A distant memory emerged against her will—an unmasked Erik, half-crying as he touched a lock of her hair, proclaiming their love was tainted, deadly. Erik, whose violent urges had been, in part, triggered by her curiosity of what lay under his mask. He had cursed her in a rage beyond fury, calling her a prying Pandora. She had been, indeed, a Pandora—foolish, weak, stupid. She had ruined the life Erik dreamed about with her. She was responsible for his torment of her and Raoul…

_Was it Erik? _The thought spun wildly in her mind as she gripped the bars of the bed frame hard. _Did Erik do this to Raoul, to me?_

_No, _a part of her mind responded_. He loves you more than anything in the world and he would never do anything to hurt you—never. He let you go with Raoul because he wanted you to be happy, too._

_You're wrong, _another voice _screamed. He tried to kill Raoul more than once. Six years is long enough for him to change his mind. He'll force you to live with him, the second option in the choice he gave you so long ago in the Opera Populaire. He's turned back into a killer and he'll find you, no matter where you are. _

_He would never do that, _the first voice persisted_. He LOVES you, Christine, and he would give his very life if it would make you at peace in the world. He would never, ever do such a thing to make you feel so hurt, so frightened!_

Christine realized that her head was bowed and her eyes closed. She opened them slowly and looked out the window. It was only mid-morning. How could the sun be shining when there was such evil, such certainty of death circling over Paris? The cheerful weather seemed to be actively mocking her morbid thoughts.

She released the drapes from their sash, darkening the room to a musky grey-black. A tear slid down her cheek, followed by another and another as she wept openly, her arms and shoulders shaking as her hands welded themselves to the iron bars of the bed. She wiped her eyes, stripped down to her chemise and crawled into bed. She wasn't remotely tired at ten in the morning, but if she slept, she could temporarily evade the inescapable pain, the grief, the memories…the waiting.

A timid knock on the door woke her. Blinking groggily, she tugged on her dressing gown and stumbled to the door in the semi-darkness. She opened it, narrowing her eyes from the blinding light.

A young boy stood before her. "For you, Madame, post," he said, bobbing his capped head to her. She smiled wanly at him in thanks and closed the door. She turned the lamp onto its dimmest setting and looked at the envelope. It was addressed to Christine, the Vicomtess de Chagny. She slid out the paper with trembling fingers and unfolded it. It read:

_I'll be here by tonight. _

_For better or worse, I am coming back._

There was no signature. Christine started shaking. What was happening? Was this from the murderer? And what did he mean, for better or worse? She tried to recall the handwriting of the first note hours ago, but could not. Her throat closed up as she started hyperventilating, almost choking on the tangible fear and terror strangling her.

She turned around and fumbled along her belongings for a narrow, flat box she had encountered upon when passing Raoul's collection of weaponry. She drew it out slowly, running her fingers along its length and caressing the dark blue velvet covering it. Strange that such a beautiful box kept such a destructive object inside. She sat upon the bed and opened it to reveal the glittering dagger she had taken earlier that day. The blade was six inches long and narrowed to a dangerously miniscule point, and the handle was studded with scarlet rubies. She had never had any use for weapons at all, being of the wrong gender to worry about such things, but the knowledge that it was there eased her mind a little. Carefully taking the dagger from its case, she leaned over, lifted up the pillow and placed the bared weapon under it. Crawling back under the covers, she slowly drifted off to a troubled sleep with her hand around the dagger, aware that this sleep could be her last.

She awoke from a distant nightmare to a second knocking at the door. The room had gotten even darker and the deep blackness from the windows told her it was night. She shivered violently. Here it would all end. Her hand fused itself tighter around the dagger, her arm numb. She took a deep breath, walked unfeelingly to the door and threw it open in a flash, the dagger ready to plunge into the heart of her murderer.

A gloved hand shot out and caught her wrist in a strong hold. Christine's eyes grew large with shock and a rock flew into her throat as the defensive movement shifted the face of her visitor into the dim light. There was only one person who walked the streets of Paris wearing a mask.

"Erik!" she whispered in pure shock, the words barely making it past her constricted throat. "How…_why?_...."

She heard a thump as her dagger dropped from her limp hands. The last thing she saw was Erik's arms closing in as the ground surged up to meet her.


	3. Intersection

**CHAPTER THREE: Intersection**

**VICOMTE De CHAGNY FOUND DEAD, MANOR ABANDONED**

In six long years nothing had changed. Erik's heart remained so tied to Christine that any mention of Miss Daaé or the de Chagnys brought him to immediately find out more information from the speakers through his many ingenious inventions, which never failed him.

Ever since the events of _Don Juan Triumphant_ and afterward, he had departed the Opera Populaire for one and a half years, knowing the Parisians would rebuild to maintain their high culture and their pride. The moment it was completed, he had quietly moved back in, taking the upper floors and forgotten corners as his own. He avoided thinking about or going back to his former dwelling in the deepest levels of the opera house. He knew part of his soul would never leave that place, but as far as his haunts were concerned, he had no intention of going back down there. Now remade anew, he finally embraced the knowledge that having finally experienced something all were supposed to experience, he, too, could look outside his windows on Paris and feel he truly belonged among the living. The legends and wild gossip about the Opera Ghost and what had happened in the underground cellars that tragic night had rapidly disappeared, replaced by other gossip from the City of Lights . And although the ballerinas, opera singers and stage hands often sensed a quiet shadow moving above them in the balconies and rafters, it was a lucky, if very strange, coincidence that no strong connection was made between this apparition and the previous one that had ruthlessly killed so many of his enemies. Transformed by Christine's gesture of love so long ago, he created a more benevolent persona in the opera house. The uncontrollable desire to destroy what was against him was largely gone. The new owners Monsieur Rousseau and Monsieur Bertrand found, every one or two years, a newly finished opera sitting on their desks with a written request to consider it for the Opera Populaire's repertoire.

But Christine, always Christine. All his motions in daily life were fueled by his thoughts for her. He had gotten used to a physical ache in his chest whenever he thought about her, which was often. Her health, her safety, that was what he wondered about. He was not fond of Raoul, besotted rival that he was, but he trusted Raoul would give her a good life. He knew if she died, it would appear in the newspaper because of her heightened status as Vicomtess. Every time the headlines blared the expectable, normal things, he breathed easy. But not now.

He scanned the article standing up, his hands growing white as he gripped the edges of his mahogany desk harder and harder. The house had been deserted by the time the police had arrived…the body was still there and the back door ajar…an unidentified person had mentioned the Inn of the Blue Moon, and the assassin had promised to return.

The Inn of the Blue Moon, That was where Christine was, he was sure of it. He knew, without knowing how, that she was there and still alive. No doubt terrified for her life and half-mad in grief.

He would go there. He nodded curtly and swung his cape around himself. Perhaps she needed him, or at least someone who could understand something of what she was going through. Christine would be furious to see him after the attempted murder of her then-fiancée. She had a right to be…

"No matter what, someone's going to get hurt," Madame Giry had said when he succinctly retold the events that unfolded after _Don Juan Triumphant._

_Let me be the one that gets hurt rather than Christine, _he thought as he swept around, gathering his belongings._ She's all I truly care about. I would gladly suffer for her, die for her. I have, all these years, always loved my Angel of Music…_

The inn owner carefully hid his surprise at seeing a second client reluctant to reveal his face and gave him the key to his room, diagonally from Christine's at the stranger's request.

He was in his room now, his body unable to relax from its tense posture. The knowledge that Christine was finally a mere thirty feet away from him after six years of eternal separation made his heart burn almost painfully with both joy and wariness. He glanced at the mirror, the mask a normalcy to him long ago, and left the room, crossing the hallway and knocking quietly on the door.

Her light tread quickened as she approached the door. She threw it open and he instinctively threw out a hand, catching her wrist to stop her weapon from descending upon him. A dagger? Even in the wake of death, she still held some of her former spunk…His eyes flickered over her face and the pain ripped through his chest again more painfully than ever before. Her face was gaunt, the cheeks more hollowed than he had ever seen them, and her face was streaked with dried tears. She looked like she had lived through a thousand nightmares. Her mouth slackened and she whispered his name in shock before her dagger fell and she crumpled to the ground unconscious.

He couldn't stop the wry smile from spreading over his face as he retrieved the dagger from the floor, gathered her limp body in his arms, laid her softly on the bed and knelt next to her. Underneath the terrible expression of grief on her face, she hadn't aged a day.

The longing rose in him to touch her face with his gloved fingers like that night so long ago, still embedded clearly in his mind. Holding his breath, he extended a hand and swept a dark lock of wildly curly hair away from her face. She didn't stir. Feeling a little bolder, he slid two fingers into the hollow made by her curved hand resting on her stomach. He closed his eyes, enjoying the sensation of her warm fingers loosely gripping his, then reluctantly stood back up and retreated to a chair in the most distant corner of the room. He waited, keeping his mind empty of all thoughts and afraid to close his eyes.


	4. Double Interrogations

**CHAPTER FOUR: Double Interrogations**

Something nudged against Christine's consciousness, something that prodded doggedly at her mind. What was it? She focused on it until it exploded in her mind.

_Erik came back_, a voice said.

Her eyelids fluttered and opened. The suggestion faded away as she quickly scanned the room and saw it was empty. She sat up and wrapped her arms around her knees, staring at the wall opposite her. That was when she saw his sitting form watching her intently. Those glittering emerald eyes were the ultimate giveaway. She gasped loudly and her legs collapsed flat on the bed in disbelief as she clutched the bedclothes to herself.

"I'm sorry. Did I startle you?" The soft, velvety voice from her distant memories spoke.

Christine could only stare for several seconds, then she regained what little sanity she had left.

"Obviously," she replied. She had meant for it to sound snappish, but she was completely drained and it sounded like an exhausted exhale.

Still sitting, the figure bowed its head in apology.

All the pieces finally clicked together in her numb mind. The man she had learned her art from, who she had loved and wanted and betrayed for another—had returned into her life.

"Why did you come back?" It was a challenge.

"You need somebody." The reply was calm, but she could almost detect an edge of—what? Determination? Hope?

"I need _nobody_," she lashed back, glaring him down. His face was in shadow, but she knew he was watching her. "I am doing quite all right by myself…"

"It doesn't look like it," he said quietly.

An unreasonably strong wave of anger rose in her. "How dare you," she snapped, the words increasing in volume as she went on. "Why did you even consider coming back to me? Did you think I would welcome you with open arms? Maybe share a cup of tea with you? It's impossible to stay in the same room as you. It makes me want to scream. I don't want your presence and I _don't_ need your help!"

She shouted the last few words and bared her teeth in anger.

"That's a matter of opinion," he said in a low voice.

"Get out." Christine spat the words with a terrible finality through her teeth, pointing towards the door.

Erik rose to his feet from the chair, and she realized again just how tall he was. He looked down at her with a strange combination of coldness and agony.

"Very well. I'll be in room 5683. Across the hall and to the left," he said. His eyes were dead now.

They stared each other down for several seconds, then he abruptly turned away and swept from the room, closing the door behind him with a loud click. Christine heard his door open and close in the distance, leaving a horrible silence behind.

Her jaw tightened and heat stabbed the back of her eyes. She hadn't meant to push him away like that. The shame pounded through her as she huddled alone in the bed. Part of her agreed vehemently with the words she had thrown at him, and a more private part of her was glad that in the middle of a crisis, someone she knew intimately well was near. She loved him, she hated him—she had no idea whatsoever. She was sure of nothing anymore.

She rocked back and forth for several minutes, envisioning over and over again her passionate outburst, his eyes as they burned, and his curt departure. The guilt stabbed deeper into her chest. In a lifetime filled with nothing but scorn and disgust, he never deserved this from her. She ran her hands through her hair, wrapped herself in her dressing gown and found her dagger lying on the bedside table. The smooth handle was warm. She placed it in the inside pocket of her robe and opened the door, intending to beg his forgiveness.

The hallway was dark and wraithlike shadows from the gas lamps wavered and flashed along the walls. Anybody could be hiding there. She gasped low in her throat and hurried across the hallway.

She knocked on Erik's door, hearing the soft sound of his pacing footsteps. He opened the door slowly and looked down at her with emotionless eyes. All the things Christine had meant to say died in her throat as she looked up at him. It took a few tries before she could speak.

"C-Can I come in?" She asked in a quavering voice.

He opened the door wider and nodded towards the inside of his room silently. He closed the door behind her and stood facing her, his face still carefully devoid of emotion.

The silent room seemed to tingle with a frightening energy that only increased as the seconds passed. He faced her, his arms crossed. Christine almost sensed the stabbing pains of his fingernails digging into his arms. Neither of them moved. She wrenched her eyes from his penetrating green ones and began to pace the room with the air of someone frantically trying to keep her cool. He watched her without comment.

Her breathing was ragged, the grief from Raoul's death and the shock at Erik's return almost too much for her to bear. She walked back and forth across the small space between the door and the foot of the bed, forcing her chaotic thoughts to grow still.

"How long are you staying here?" she shot at him. She stopped mid-pace to look at him.

His eyes glittered. "Next question," he said smoothly.

Christine sputtered out an incoherent protest.

"Next question," he repeated.

Christine's eyes tightened as her lips parted very slightly to reveal her clenched teeth. She started pacing again, long tendrils of dark hair swirling in her wake.

"You must have read the paper," she stated. She had seen the article itself, product of the overly excited press, having salvaged it from a wastebasket before being led to her room.

"Yes."

"Then you know the position I'm in."

"Yes, I do," he said quietly.

A thick silence descended once more as Christine continued pacing, back and forth, back and forth. She whirled around to face him.

"Tell me the truth," she demanded. "Did you kill Raoul?"

Erik looked back at her levelly. "No, I did not. When I let you go, I let you go not just out of love, but because I also trusted him to make you happy."

Christine believed him. The earnestness of his answer convinced her. She wrung her fingers as she kept up her pacing.

"Are you frightened?" he asked softly.

She stopped and looked at him. He was gazing back at her, their faces not five feet apart in the small room, and she became aware of a steady shaking in her petite frame. She drew the dagger out of her dressing gown and gripped it hard like a lifeline, and it started quivering too.

"Yes," she cried out, the response cutting through the silence in the room. "My husband is dead, brutally murdered with his blood staining the floors of my former home and the killer isn't satisfied with that alone. He plans to finish me off in so similar a fashion, and the girls next door to me, probably. I've had the great fortune to have been raised and cared for by loving adults, and all that is suddenly taken away from me with death staring me in the face instead, and you wonder that I'm _frightened?_"

She choked out the last few words through a strangled throat and began to cry in earnest, tears sliding down her cheeks as she turned her back to him, her racked sobs taking over as anger and terror ripped through her leaving gaping wounds.

Erik surveyed her back as tears cascaded down her face. She was a pretty little thing when she cried. Her face twisted up under the heaviest emotions and her passion was evident behind every tear. He came up behind her and gently pushed his handkerchief into her trembling hand. He did nothing more, sure that any further gesture of comfort would be too much for her. He waited as she slowly quieted and turned back around, her face still slightly wet. She didn't meet his eyes as she faced him. She clasped her hands together in front of her and looked away.

"I'm sorry," she whispered. "I'm unacceptable and a shame to myself."

"No, you're not," he replied. "You're just like any other young widow—lonely, scared, frightened—who wouldn't be? In time the wounds heal, but the first part is always the hardest. You have to force yourself to keep existing—moment after moment—through a living nightmare."

_Living nightmare…_she thought. Yes. That's what this was. She started walking towards the door to leave, her head bowed in defeat. He stepped in front of her, catching her forearms in his hands. She gasped softly in surprise. His long fingers hadn't lost any of their determined strength over the years, and Christine's toes curled as the heat from his hands penetrated through the leather sheathing them. She looked up, and his eyes were burning into her face.

"Will you be all right?" he implored.

She closed her eyes and a tear slid out, burning her cheek. "I don't know…I don't know," she whispered brokenly, and she started sobbing quietly.

Through the suffocating fog of abject dread, the sudden urge to embrace the man who was once her greatest enemy engulfed her. So he had killed, and killed again…what did it matter? He had done it out of his love for her. All the terror she had lived through during her time at the opera house, she had brought upon herself. She was forever cursed to ruin everyone…

A quiet, slightly hysterical laugh escaped her as she wrapped her arms around him unfeelingly. Her arms tightened as she realized he was what she needed, no matter how apathetic he was about Raoul's demise.

Tears almost came to him as she put her tender arms around him, another gesture of affection he had witnessed too many times but had never known. He knew she did it more out of necessity than love for him, but that did not matter. He hesitantly embraced her back, and in a gesture of long-buried emotion, stroked her dark hair tenderly. Her sobs were muffled by his body as they slowly quieted. Her cheek rested against his chest, and in a daring move, he brushed his gloved fingertips along the side of her face, ghosting across her lips. She drew away and looked at him, her eyes sparkling brilliantly with tears and her cheeks wet. Their ragged breathing was the only sound in the room as they stared at one another. Christine's soft lips parted as brown eyes looked into green.

"Erik…" she whispered almost silently.

Her lips met his, gliding across gently, then suddenly hardened as she ran her hands around his neck and clutched him to her feverishly. Erik felt his heartbeat accelerating as he realized that she had never forgotten him. The pent-up emotions of six long years apart woke and surged through them as they relived all their wondrous moments together. His fingers dug into her back as an alien joy swept through him. Since that night, he had never known pure happiness, until now.

She wrenched away from him and her hands flew up to her searing cheeks as the enormity of what she had done slammed down upon her. To be kissing the near-killer of her deceased husband so unabashedly not even twenty-four hours after his death! How callous she was! _Shame, shame, shame…_ the scolding line from _Il Muto_ rang in her ears. Make no mistake, she was bound for Hades.

"What am I doing?" she breathed in disbelief. "God forgive me for this sin!"

She flew to the door of his room and threw it open before he could stop her. He followed her swiftly back to her room as she stood shaking outside the locked door, fumbling with her room key. It fell through her shaking fingers onto the carpeted floor. She bent down to pick it up, but his hand beat her. He slid the key into the lock in one smooth movement and turned it until it clicked. He pulled the door open for her and she nodded in thanks as she walked in. She turned around in surprise as the door closed with a loud snap. Erik had followed her in, his eyes glittering.

"Why did you follow me?" Christine said. The question made the memory of her initial reaction to his reappearance come to mind, and she winced, forcing it down. She raised her dagger slightly, still in her hand.

"Relax, Madame. I'm not going to violate you. But since you are my priority, I have my responsibilities," he replied.

She cocked her head to one side, the motion both a question and a challenge.

He stepped closer to her, his masked face appearing in the light. "Did you think I was going to sit in my room and wait for the murderer to come back for you?"

"I depended on it," Christine said, an edge of venom in her voice.

He exhaled sharply in a snort of laughter and his mouth turned up in a smirk. "Sorry, Madame. You don't always get what you want." When he spoke again, his face was set, his voice low and rough. "I'm not going anywhere."

She glared at him for a moment, and underneath the frustration Erik saw a hint of the torment in her mind.

"You should try to sleep," he said, taking off his cape and gloves and laying them over the chair he had previously occupied. "It's very late."

"Your favorite time of day," she said, looking at him intently. Her expression had softened.

"Yes," he said softly. "But that's hardly the point. Get into bed."

She laid her dagger underneath the pillow and he made a big show of facing the wall as she turned her back and slipped the dressing gown off. But against his better judgment, he looked over his shoulder at her as the robe slid off her shoulders to reveal her in her shift. A powerful wave of desire coursed through his body as his eyes raked over the thin material clinging to every curve on her slim body. This was the closest he had ever come to seeing her nude, and it aroused him greatly. He glared at his groin and through sheer force of will, forced the blood flowing there to stop. A flicker of shame washed over him for betraying her trust.

"Erik?" she said softly. He turned around and saw she was already under the covers. He drew up a chair and sat down next to her. "I am truly sorry for my reaction, when I first saw you and after I awoke. It was very rude and inexcusable of me." Her pale face almost glowed in the dim lighting of the room.

"It's time you realized that murderers never knock," he said, smiling slightly. "I wasn't expecting a welcoming party, Christine. Your apology is accepted. Perhaps coming was a bad judgment on my part."

"It's hard to be around you," she stated, the corner of her mouth twisting up sadly. His lips tightened as the words registered in his mind.

She had seen his reaction. "No—I didn't mean it that way," she said, her eyes still burning with remorse. "Not because of what you are, but because of what happened between us. It's all different now."

"I can sit in the back corner so you won't easily see me. It will make you feel more comfortable," he suggested. He would gladly do anything Christine wished, but the selfish part of him wanted to stay near her always. His hands tingled with the desire to touch her again.

"There's no need," she replied, shaking her head weakly. She closed her eyes briefly, and when they opened again Erik saw the tears pooling in them. She inhaled shakily and a tear slid out from the corner of her eyes travelling downward towards her hairline. She turned onto her left side facing him and started crying softly.

"Oh, Erik," she whispered through her tears. "I know you hated him. You probably don't understand how precious he was to me…"

She continued crying quietly. Erik longed to comfort her, but held back, fearing it would be too much for her.

"Erik," she said softly, looking up at him. "Can you please hold me?"

Hardly believing she was asking such an intimate thing of him, he extended his hand, rubbing her shoulder and back gently.

"Thank you," she whispered. She was quiet now. After several minutes, Erik slowly stopped rubbing her and caught the sound of her breathing, irregular and shallow in her recent trauma as she slept. He sighed deeply and stood up from the chair next to her, retreating to the one in the far corner where he had sat earlier. He took a loaded revolver from his pocket and placed it on the desk next to him. He felt the firm presence of his Punjab lasso in his inside pocket, and decided to leave it there. Putting his cape back on, he sat down and twisted his fingers as he gazed at her huddled form, so breakable in the wake of death. Tiredness evaded him, and he watched over her, never looking away as the Parisian moon sailed unconcernedly across the sky.


	5. All Hallow's Eve

**CHAPTER FIVE: All Hallow's Eve**

_Her sleep was troubled. She dreamed she was back in the foyer of the de Chagny manor at dawn. Raoul appeared above her at the top of the staircase, wholesome in the early light in a dark brown suit. She pulled her dressing gown tighter around her against the slight chill in the air as he descended down the staircase with soft steps and took her hand, leading her towards the front door. They stopped several feet away and she sighed, knowing their parting was near. _

"_I must go now," Raoul murmured, wrapping his arms around her waist. His eyes were soft. _

"_I will pray for you every night. Come back soon," she said softly. Her voice trembled slightly._

"_Don't worry so much. Wherever I am, I'll be fine when I think of you," he replied, smiling as he enclosed her lips gently in a kiss. They held each other a little tighter as they lost themselves in the moment. _

_Still locked in the farewell kiss, Christine opened her eyes to find a tall figure dressed in black regarding the couple with icy indifference. Before she could shriek her surprise, the stranger whipped out a dagger and plunged it into Raoul's neck._

_Raoul's lips still held hers and Christine felt them harden in shock as his scream was muffled by her mouth. He wrenched himself away from her face as his scream, now free of barriers, pierced the air. He grabbed the wound, a shocked expression on his face as he slid down to the floor and slowly grew still. _

_Christine slowly raised her head and stared at the unknown face of Raoul's murderer a few feet away. He grabbed her hand and jerked her to him roughly. _

"_I'll make short work of this, you pretty little thing," he hissed in her ear, his fingers digging so hard into Christine's forearms that they hurt. "A beauty like you…no, I don't want you to suffer for too long…but that doesn't mean it will hurt less. More pain in less time."_

_Christine looked at him, frightened beyond belief._

"_Completely helpless and terrified," he whispered maliciously. "That's what I savor the most…the fear in my victims' eyes."_

_He laughed and turned Christine's back to him, pinning her wrists behind her back with one hand as he drew out a knife, placed the edge at her throat and ripped it across her neck in one swift movement. Christine felt the monstrous pain lance her through and the horrible sensation of her own blood cascading in a scarlet waterfall down her front. _

"_Sweet dreams," the killer said, smiling viciously as Christine's eyes rolled back in her head and she crumpled to the ground next to her dead husband._

With a scream, she awoke.

"Christine!" the alarmed voice of Erik said. She blinked hard. Erik's masked face came into view, leaning over her worriedly, his eyes frightened. "It's all right," he said. "It was only a dream."

"Oh," Christine gasped. She sank deeper under the covers and put her hands over her eyes, unable to stop the shaking in them.

He gently drew her hands away from her face. She was still panting in fright as their eyes met.

"All these nights," she said, gulping. "I've never been killed by another person."

His hands tightened painfully on her wrists as a spark of horror flashed through his eyes. "You've had nightmares of your own death before this?"

She nodded miserably. "After I l-left, yes."

"My God," Erik said in an agonized whisper. "Why did I let you go off with that poodle_?_"

"Erik, no," Christine whispered as the insult pierced her through. "Don't talk about Raoul like that."

"I'm sorry," he said after a small pause. His grip slackened. "He was my rival."

Christine looked into his green eyes, glimmering in the dim light, and memories of him as her beloved Angel of Music rushed back to her. His hand held out to hers in the torchlit corridor, the beautiful reprimanding in his voice as he spoke to her in the dressing room, his warm arms guiding her to her likeness in a wedding dress, and a very faint memory of lying in a bed with fingers stroking her cheek, so distant that she had always wondered afterward if it was a dream.

She was brought back to the present by scuffling movements in the adjacent room.

"Erik," she said, alarmed. "My maids are in the next room and they'll probably check on me after they heard me scream. It would be best if they didn't see you, a strange man in my room…"

He nodded once and releasing her wrists, he grabbed his cape, threw it around himself and retreated into the deep shadows without arguing. Christine heard a door open and half-running footsteps coming nearer. A fist pounded on her door.

"Madame! Madame! Are you all right?" the voice of Amélie was high-pitched with fright.

Christine made her way to the door and unlocked it. Amélie stood before her, her hair wild from sleep and her nightclothes wrinkled.

Amélie sighed deeply with relief. "Thank the Lord that you're still alive," she breathed, closing her eyes and making the sign of the Cross. She opened her eyes. "We thought—we thought the killer had come back for you. What made you scream?"

"I had a nightmare, that's all," Christine replied. You can go back to sleep, Amélie. All is well." _Except for the fact that the villain in my dream will soon be visiting me in person,_ she thought. _And there's no way I'll get out alive._

"Yes, ma'am," Amélie made a little curtsy and headed back to her room. Christine closed the door and turned around.

"Erik?" she whispered.

"I'm here." The soft reply came from the farthest corner of the room, and he stepped out of the shadows towards her.

She started shaking in the dark. "Erik, I'm scared."

He drew closer to her until they were a few feet apart. "Anybody who's not frightened in this situation is either completely invincible…or not very intelligent," he murmured softly. "No matter what happened in the past…I'll protect you." His voice held the seal of a promise.

"How can you be sure?" she whispered.

He laughed succinctly. "The only things murderers fear are the police, or…" his face darkened. "Another murderer."

"Don't…" Christine shook her head.

"I wish I could say it another way," he said quietly. There was a pause, then he changed the subject. "You should go back to sleep."

"I'm not sure I'll be able to," she confessed.

"Try."

"I'm—" Her breath caught in her throat. "I'm afraid I'll never wake up."

"If you're not going to try to fall asleep, you can at least try to have faith in my ability to protect you from harm," he said, a slight smirk on his lips.

He nodded toward the bed and Christine sat upon the edge gingerly while he seated himself back down on the chair next to it.

There was a silence. Then Christine spoke.

"When I had to choose between you and Raoul," she said shyly, "I almost chose to stay with you, because of what we had together and how you saved me from destruction after my father's death. And now Raoul is dead…I can't throw away the memories of him and I like they never existed. Here you are, barely twelve hours after his death, and—I almost want to touch you, and kiss you," she said very softly.

Overwhelming desire flared in his eyes as she voiced his thoughts aloud. He had dreamed uncountable times that she would say that aloud to him, then do just that.

"If you ever do," he replied in a low voice, trying to suppress the sudden emotion weighing down his heart, "I want it to be your choice, not because I coerced you into it. On the other hand…" he leaned closer. "You can let go of Raoul, you know. It'll be all right. He wants you to be happy, even after he leaves this world. If it means ending up with another man…" his voice almost broke at the impossible wish. "then so be it."

Christine stared at him as the realization hit home. Then, breaking eye contact, she extended her right hand slowly, nervously across the short distance between them. She gingerly touched the fingers of his left hand, dangling off his thighs. Erik watched her steadily, his heartbeat pounding in his head as she twisted her hand around to meet his. Their palms touched and he gazed at her, hardly daring to breathe as their hands met from fingertip to the edge of the wrist. Nobody in the world had ever done this for him, the simple action of touching his hand in love. So many times he had dreamed of a warm hand touching his tenderly, only to wake up and realize that no hand had ever touched his, save his own. To find that his silent wish had come true in the form of the one person he had ever loved—he felt burning tears stabbing at the back of his eyes.

Christine's fingers trembled very slightly. She was holding the same fingers that had composed unearthly operas, created a simmering lust within her and killed a nation of men. He felt her fear and squeezed her hand minutely, comforting her. Their eyes met and he forced himself to remain calm as he saw the hint of longing and desire in her dark eyes.

Just as she laced her fingers through his, the door burst open explosively. Christine's fingers tightened painfully on Erik's and she let out a piercing gasp of sheer terror as she saw the silhouette of a man framed in the doorway. She wrenched her hand from Erik's and dived under her pillow, holding up the dagger. Erik froze as he looked at the wall behind Christine and saw the malevolent shadow from the light spilling in from the hallway.

The killer had come back for Christine's blood.


	6. Two Phoenixes

**CHAPTER SIX: Two Phoenixes**

**Author's note: I've always had the impression that the first part of this scene is seriously lacking in danger and that it's not frightening or intense enough. Oh well...  
**

"A pretty blade indeed, my dear, but it will prove useless in the end," a snide voice hissed. The killer closed the door quickly and advanced on them in the dark, throwing away the hairpin he had used to pick the lock. "You are unskilled in the use of weapons. I can disarm you in a matter of seconds before finishing you off. And then the kill…I think I shall enjoy this more than most." His eyes blazed and he licked his lips in anticipation, then stopped as he realized the presence of another person in the room, his back to him. Erik's black cape had made him almost invisible in the thick darkness. "You!" the killer barked. "Who are you? Show yourself!"

Erik stood up and turned around, revealing his masked face to him. "I am the Opera Ghost, Monsieur. Killer of Joseph Buquet, Ubaldo Piangi and many others." Christine trembled as she wondered about his violent past.

"Ahhh, yes, the Opera Ghost," the killer said with relish. "Your deeds have already become the stuff of legends. I've been keeping tabs on you for a long time. Very pleased with the death of Piangi—never liked him. Well, you've already done part of my job already. The little lady's all by herself, thank you very much indeed. Now step aside while I finish my task, or perhaps you'd like to assist me?"

"Neither." Erik's reply was polite, but Christine caught the edge of malice in his voice. "This is the same lady that I kidnapped after the premiere of Don Juan Triumphant. I have no intention of hurting her, and every intention to stop you if you even think of doing so."

The killer of Christine's husband stepped closer into the light. He was dressed in a black shirt and black pants, a black scarf covering the top half of his head. His body was solidly built, with one getting the impression that he could easily crush anything within reach. His slitted eyes flashed bloody murder as the tendons in his hand tightened with poisonous rage. "Stand aside, I order you!" he roared.

Erik's façade of controlled charisma faded away as he glared icily at the stranger with a black fury. A primal snarl ripped through his clenched teeth. "You would _die_ before you touched her!"

The dark figure sneered. "I highly doubt that."

"Would you like to put it to the test?" Erik said in a deadly voice.

Christine froze. Pure terror surged through her veins as she realized the treacherous choice Erik was making. He was defending her, but was intensifying the Devil's temptation to annihilate them by openly challenging him. They would face off, and Erik could die, crying out her name in agony. If things went as the murderer planned, she would join him in icy death as well. She closed her eyes, desperately hoping she had just imagined the words coming out of Erik's mouth, but opened them again to find Erik and the killer staring at each other malevolently. _It will end here_, she thought.

The figure darted around Erik and lunged for Christine, drawing a knife out of his pocket as he sprinted towards her. Just before Christine's scream could make it past her lips, Erik's hands grabbed him by the waist, throwing him back across the room. The man staggered, almost falling, then straightened up. He methodically sheathed his knife, then lifted his dark shirt to reveal a series of daggers inserted into his belt, each five inches long. He drew all of them out, aiming one directly at Erik, who stood in front of Christine protectively.

He smiled sadistically at Erik, "How good are you at catching?"

"Let's find out," Erik replied coldly. He cursed inwardly. His reflexes were commendable, but he didn't trust himself with snagging sharp objects out of thin air.

The dark man flicked the stiletto at him. Erik dodged to the side, his hand shooting out to grab the dagger before it reached Christine, his fingers wrapping around its handle harmlessly. The dark man spat out a curse, and in a focused rage released the rest of the daggers. Erik caught all of them in midair, hissing with pain as he caught the last one too early, the blade ripping into the flesh of his palm.

The killer had moved beyond simple anger. He whipped out his knife again, the ring of steel slicing through the room, and his glittering eyes blazed with a passion beyond all fury possible as he glared at Erik. Erik looked back at him, a smug smirk on his lips as the man lunged forward again.

Christine sat terrified on her bed, her raised arm frozen in midair as the knife flashed through the air again and again. Erik dodged every slice and stab, and Christine hoped against hope that he wouldn't miscalculate his reactions.

Erik caught the killer's wrist as he raised it for another blow. The dark man tried to wrench it away, but Erik held on like Death. Within his other hand, Erik swiftly reached up and pinched the flesh between the man's thumb and index finger. The man let out a yell of pain as his instrument of murder clattered to the ground. Erik kicked it away and slammed him up against the wall, his hand around his neck in a lethal chokehold.

"I thought she would be an easy kill," the dark man rasped as Erik's fingers tightened, cutting off more of his air supply. "I brought no other weapons."

"That's too bad," Erik replied dispassionately. He turned to Christine, his white mask the brightest thing visible in the smoky darkness. "Don't look. Don't listen." He extracted a noose one-handed from his inner pocket and forced it down over the man's head. He released his neck and tightened it viciously.

"No!" Christine cried out. Both Erik and his victim looked at her in surprise. "Please, Erik, don't kill him. Please don't!"

"He doesn't deserve to live, Christine," Erik growled between his teeth as his grip tightened on the rope.

"That may be true, but even so, I don't want someone to die because I stood aside and did nothing," Christine implored. "The police can lock him up—he'll never escape—please, I beg you, spare him for my sake!"

Erik turned back towards his victim, who was making small choking sounds, and the two narrowed their eyes at each other with violent loathing in their eyes. Then Erik loosened the lasso and turned the man around roughly to face the wall, pinning his wrists behind his back with one hand. He drew another length of rope out of his pocket and deftly bound the man's hands together. Taking the slackened noose, he raised it to the level of the killer's mouth, forcing it inside as he tied the loose end in a complicated knot, creating a gag. Eyes narrowed, Erik systematically patted him down, making sure he was completely spent of weapons. Then, never taking his eyes off the man, Erik backed up to the desk, found the loaded revolver and raised it to the killer's face, cocking it.

"One wrong move, and you're off to experience hell firsthand," he snarled, the threat clearly evident in his harsh voice.

"Christine," he said, keeping his eyes on the killer, "Tell one of your maids to get the police,"

Erik's words unfroze her. Christine dropped her dagger on the bed and ran over to the wall adjacent to the maids' room, pounding on it with her fist.

"Anna! Genevieve! Are you there?"

"Madame!" The high voice of Genevieve responded. "We heard noises, miss, we were about to check—what happened?"

Christine looked at Erik nervously for a fleeting instant, not knowing what to say.

"An old friend of mine—" She broke off, knowing that Erik was both much less and much more than that. "—stopped him just in time. It was the killer come back to get me, Genevieve. He's bound and gagged and my friend has him under submission. Get the police, if you please."

"At once, Madame," Christine heard running footsteps fade into the distance.

Several minutes passed in a very tense silence. Christine's breathing slowly calmed as she realized the ordeal was over for the time being. Erik and the murderer glared at each other icily without looking away—the murderer with defiance, Erik with a challenge in his eyes, his hand steady, never lowering the revolver for an instant.

The door burst open and Christine looked up to see four police officers walk in briskly, followed by Genevieve, her eyes wide. The other maids crowded around outside in the hallway, conversing rapidly in hushed whispers as they took in the scene.

"Thank you, monsieur, for assisting in this man's capture," One of the officers said as the others picked up the man and hauled him out the door.

"My pleasure," Erik said quietly. Christine looked at his face in alarm, and her heartbeat steadied when she saw that the masked side of his face was in deep shadow, even with the faint light spilling in from the hallway. The French police had a long memory, and she preferred their being oblivious to the fact that someone they had fervently pursued earlier was in the very same room as them.

"We're almost finished. We'll quit this place and leave you to yourselves," the officer said, uncapping a pen and quickly filling out a form. He nodded to the scattered weapons around the room. "Are those yours or his?"

"All his, except for the one lying on the bed," Erik replied, nodding to the one Christine had numbly dropped earlier.

"Very well. Would you like to keep them, or do you hand them over to the police?"

"You may take them. I prefer—other weapons," Erik said.

The officer nodded and walked about the room, gathering up the fallen knife and daggers lying on the floor, respectfully avoiding eye contact with Christine, who had clutched the bedsheets to herself, suddenly feeling naked in her shift. The officer finished and straightened up.

"That's all, I should think. Thank you, and good night." He inclined his head in gratitude, then left the room, closing the door behind him.

The maids, who had drifted in slowly during the exchange, clustered around Christine with an outcry of exclamations and relief, but she shooed them out, urging them to get some sleep in the night they had left. She closed the door firmly and rested her forehead against the cool wood, feeling all the tension flow out of her young body with every breath she made.

"It's over," she whispered.

"Yes," Erik said, his voice soft and calm in the darkness. "It is finished. You are a free woman, Christine, and you are free to do whatever you please now, never having to turn around looking for the face of your future killer,"

"Never. Never again," she breathed, turning around from the door to face him. She gazed at him intently for several seconds, her lips pinched inward. "Erik, I—" she stopped, unable to go on.

"Yes?" he prodded her.

"Can I take off your mask?" she asked, a little timidly. Her face burned. She didn't have the right to ask that question, but she needed, wanted…she had a burning urge to see his face—all of it.

"That's the first time you ever asked," Erik murmured dryly, and Christine exhaled sharply in a self-conscious laugh, lowering her eyes. Then Erik's voice lowered to a whisper. "Go ahead. There's no part of my face you haven't seen."

Silently, Christine approached him. She tentatively put her left hand on the masked side of his face, looking him straight in the eyes. His green irises burned, but they did not scorch. Instead, they smoldered with a luminescent intensity that sent an arrow right into her soul as she pulled the mask away, revealing his terrible deformity to the world.

Erik studied her expression as she beheld his grotesque face, looking for any trace of the familiar horror or scorn that had, from childhood, broken his heart beyond repair. His heart leaped when he found none. There was only love.

Christine dropped her gaze downward, and all of a sudden, her expression changed. She let out a loud gasp of shock as she saw the scarlet blood that had slid around Erik's palm to cover the back of his hand. The sound jerked Erik out of his private Elysium as his eyes refocused to see her hand fly to her mouth in horror.

"Oh, my L—"She was too shocked to finish her sentence. She swallowed. "Give me a moment. I'll wrap up your hand."

"With what, may I ask?" he inquired.

Christine bit her lip as the realization sank in. She was less than willing to deface the inn's bedsheets, and she had no fabric to spare. She looked down at herself. Gritting her teeth, she gripped the bottom hem of her shift and pulled as hard as she could. She closed her eyes as the thin fabric tore under her fingers. A few more rips and she was holding a handful of ivory silk in her hand. Ignoring Erik's suppressed chuckle, she carefully wrapped up his hand with the cloth from her shift, trying not to wince at the sight of so much blood.

Erik hadn't felt the pain until Christine had realized its existence. With her gasp of horror, it had suddenly come to life, sending a searing heat through his hand. He didn't want to admit it, but it did hurt quite a lot.

Her sudden nearness made Erik's heart do an out-of-control tap-dance against his ribcage. Her delicate beauty, despite the trauma she had endured over the last twelve hours, reminded him of all the feelings for her that he had kept inside for so long. When she took his hand gently and started wiping off the blood, a shudder ran through his body like a lightning bolt. The mere thought that someone could care so much about his injuries, mental or physical…it was overwhelming. He had been raised to fend for himself; if there was a problem, there would be no one in the world to help him. He struggled to control his emotions, but he couldn't stop a solitary tear from sliding silently down his face. He took a shuddery breath and Christine looked up. She gazed at him, taking in his expression of agonized ecstasy. After a moment of what seemed like internal debate, she leaned in and gently pressed her lips to his cheek, kissing the tear away. Still holding his injured hand, she kissed her way over to his chin, before, very softly, putting her lips on his.

She heard his sharp intake of breath, and kissed him just a little harder. He tentatively responded, and she responded to him, until they were fusing their lips and souls together in an intense outpouring of passion. Real passion, in its pure, untainted form. He closed his eyes, so wrapped up in sheer bliss that he was surprised his knees did not give out, sending him to the floor. Wrapping his arms around her, feeling the contours of her back through the thin silk, sent shivers of want coursing frantically through his body. His body hardened in response and he felt the blood rushing to his legs.

They broke apart and clung to each other, gasping for breath. Each of them could feel the other trembling slightly as their breathing, louder than usual, seemed to fill up the room. Overwhelmed, Christine buried her head in Erik's chest, feeling his body press back against her as his hands held her to him like he would never let go.

They unraveled their arms from around each other and Christine stepped away from him. With a rush of embarrassment, he realized that she had also felt his body's response to her. They looked carefully at each other in silence, then Christine, keeping her eyes lowered to hide the blush covering them, finished bandaging Erik's hand. Erik delighted when she looked up at him, her soft eyes shining.

"You should sleep," he said reluctantly.

She nodded and moving her dagger to the bedside table, crawled under the covers, facing him. Erik saw with relief that the sudden passion that had flared up between his legs had faded away once Christine had the covers over her shoulders, the shift gone from sight. He sat down next to her again and they were quiet for a moment. Then Christine spoke.

"Why did you want to kill him, Erik?" she looked at him, a slight frown on her face. "I thought—"she flushed at her rashness. "I hoped—that you had changed completely after…that night."

"I think I did, for the most part," he replied. "But—"he paused, and when he spoke again he sounded like each word was carefully chosen. "When I learned about the murderer who promised to come back, who dared to even think of harming you—it brought back my old instincts. I wanted to destroy this person, this masochistic being who dared to take advantage of you—helpless, beautiful young woman that you are," he said, a small smile creeping up his lips. "Did I lose control?" Perhaps, for a moment. But all psychopaths have their excuses." He bit his lip as he registered his unconscious association with a deranged killer.

"Because of me, "she breathed in wonder. "You went this far all because of me." She was silent for a moment, marveling. "You still love me."

Erik's heart burned and he rose from his seat, sinking into a kneel next to her as his Angel of Music said the words that he had suppressed in his mind for so long. He took a deep breath.

"Always have," he said in a low voice. Then it lowered further into a whisper as he leaned over her, stroking her hair gently. "Always will."

Christine's eyes sparkled with happiness as she smiled up at him. She drew her hand from the covers and touched his bandaged hand lying on the sheets near her pillow. She brought it to her lips and kissed his injured palm, and he almost succumbed to tears of joy as her lips met the raw edges of his wound. She lowered his hand back down to the sheets and gently pushed her hand under his. Holding his breath, Erik squeezed her hand, his thumb skimming back and forth over her knuckles. He released the air from his lungs in relief as she smiled and closed her eyes.

"Sleep well," he said quietly. The intense surge of emotions coursing through him reduced his voice to a nearly-silent whisper. He listened hard for a moment. Her breathing was already deep and steady in sleep, the way it should have been all her life. He took another deep breath and let it out slowly. The danger was gone, and Christine and he could face the coming dawn with no fear of tomorrow.


End file.
